The Adventures Of Mycroft Holmes
by Volume-Of-A-book
Summary: Looking back, I can't say that I regret the choice that seemed so insignificant at the time, for despite all I lost because of it, I can't help but think that what I gained was worth the despair.- Please Review
1. Chapter 1: Fate In The Making

**_The Adventures Of Mycroft Holmes_**

_A True Story By Thomas Rowley_

**Chapter One: Fate In The Making.**

It was one of those cold Saturdays, the kind that frustrate you with their stubborn refusal to cooperate with your holiday plans. So my wife and I decided to cancel our weekend trip to the cottage and instead go for dinner and then spend the rest of the time before her business meeting the following evening, watching old movies and eating too much popcorn. A tradition that was more appealing to me then her, as I was, and am still, in possession of an extremely forgiving metabolism.

Looking back, I can't say that I regret the choice that seemed so insignificant at the time, for despite all I lost because of it, I can't help but think that what I gained was worth the despair.

It wasn't raining outside, it was only depressing, so Lucy and I walked the few blocks from our apartment to the restaurant. A lovely little establishment with a quiet atmosphere that had become a favorite of ours since our marriage, four years ago.

Being one of those lucky writers, that people not only read, but also bother to purchase the works of instead of just downloading them illegally off the internet. I had managed to provide extremely well for both myself and Lucy. Although she still preferred to run the company she'd been the driving force of for the last three years, since her most recent promotion to CEO.

You may have heard of it. It's called _Warner & Company_ and it's an investment firm.

It wasn't named after my wife, although that's usually the first assumption that people make, but her father. He handed it down to her upon his begrudging retirement, much to everyone's surprise, after having also had the option of awarding his son the most lucrative position within it.

Well, I say, _everyone_, but really what I mean is, anyone who didn't know my wife.

Her full name, Lucille, Abigail Warner was written in her stern, sharply executed handwriting across the appropriate lines of the necessary paperwork by twelve in the afternoon of the same day. It's a signature that was far more familiar to our lawyer then my own.

But who am I, you ask? My name is Thomas Rowley.

Rowley.

Pronounced Row-lee.

'Row' as in the British word for 'Fight'.

Actually that's quite a convenient comparison being as that's where I lived, and still do. New London. Although, back then the year was 2137, 34 years after the reanimation of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective and by far the greatest mind criminal detection had ever seen...so far as I knew.

That particular event had never played any significant role in my life up until that day , especially because I grew up in America and still have the accent, but I mention it because it was about to become a very important factor in the years leading up to now, as I sit, writing at my desk.

It occurs to me that if you've never read any of my work before this, you may be wondering what it is that I write that allows me to support myself so well in an age where literature is not nearly as popular a form of entertainment as it was even ten years ago. Well, in case you don't already know, I am an author of biographies.

I know it sounds boring, but it's a living. And real life has always held a greater attraction for me than fiction. The great thing about my books, if you'll forgive the unintentional advertisement, is that even today they are desirable as a kind of tasteful gossip, if that's not a contradiction in terms.

I write the truth about celebrities, but it's done with the subject's permission and I'm always able, due this cooperation, to discover things that have never come to light before. Therefore, if you want the latest information on the newest pop sensation, the first thing any learned fan-clubber does, is download one of my electronic books from the internet site it cost me three thousand credits to hire a graphic designer to put together. It's easy, they're reasonably priced, and I'm always very up to date on latest who's who information.

But it's not one sided, I'm often called up by celebrities who ask me to write pieces or entire books about them. My name's become a sign of quality, wit and a unique perspective since I finished my third book when I was twenty three. It's now become standard procedure, if you'd like to be noticed by the public, get published by Thomas Rowley.

These days, I know everyone worth knowing in celebrity circles, from the hottest screen actors and actresses to their relatives and agents. That's actually how I met Lucy. I was writing a book on her father, one of the richest men in new London, and I was asked to interview her.

But enough about my job, for, as it turned out, there was one very remarkable person I didn't know, who, due partly to my writings, would soon become one of the most famous women in history. And of all of the celebrities I have had the good fortune to meet, I have to say that she was the one most worth knowing.

Once Lucy and I got in the door we sat down at our customary table, it was a booth, close to the window, but with enough privacy that should anyone I knew walk in; we'd be able to hide and pretend we hadn't noticed them. It had been a short walk, but a strange one, as a hover car had almost clipped both our heads off when we'd come out unexpectedly from a side ally.

It didn't seem to have ruffled my wife, she was pristine as always, her black hair glistening healthily in the soft candle light. Her makeup as perfect as it always was, Lucy always wore makeup, every day. Oh, she mixed up the colors a bit, but only at night did I see her without it, and then her face was scrubbed so clean that it seemed as though she had never been unkempt or ruffled in her entire life.

And she probably never had.

She smiled at me, with those full, red lips, and asked me what I was going to order. I was about to answer her, but something caught my eye and I swallowed my words, peering curiously across the room towards the double doors of the kitchen, leaning eagerly across the white linen table cloth.

Something you should know about me, a trait that Lucy was already well acquainted with, is that I'm constantly on the lookout for good stories. I may be known for my books about celebrities, but my hobby is writing about unique and interesting people who have done great things that no one else seems to care about. In between my more lucrative projects, I usually write two smaller books a year about these silent angels. They don't sell well, but they make me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Now, these doors were of that antique style of the old gourmet restaurants, with a single round window in each one that cooks usually use to pear discreetly over at the food critiques who stick their noses in the menues every once in a while, much to the displeasure of the other diners.

However, I wasn't looking at them on account of the timeless romance they projected, but rather, because of the windows. Or to be precise, the view through them.

I could see a figure, pacing back and forth. I couldn't make out much of her, but what I did intrigued me. It was of course, a woman. She was tall, very tall for her sex. In fact, I would have placed her as being just a little shorter than I was, and I'm on the taller side of the height ratio for men. She had dark brown hair in a braid that had to reach past her shoulders at the very least.

That was all I could see of her physically, as only the back of her head was visible, however, there was something about her, something in the constant, tense rhythm of movement as she vanished and reappeared continually between the windows, that had gotten the better of my curiosity. It also seemed that every time she left my range of vision to stand in a blind spot behind the door, and the kitchen staff became visible, that they were scowling at her angrily.

I made to get up from my seat "Luse, I'm gunna go see something, I'll be right back." She ginned, her deep brown eyes sparking with amusement. She knew already what was on my mind. "Just don't be forever, Tom, would you like me to order for you?" Lucille had a pretty voice, entirely British upper-class, methodical in it's perfection. Lucy was perfect at everything it seemed.

I nodded, and strode over towards the doors, swinging one of them open towards me. I pretty much had free range wherever I went, as those who knew me did not want to risk being negatively remarked upon in my next project. I'd never do something like that, but I didn't make that common knowledge. So I had little hesitation where protocol was concerned.

There, before me, was the strangest woman I had ever seen, and to this day, that is a phenomenon that remains unchanged. She was almost my height, as I had predicted, but that was completely unimportant when you were face to face with her.

Her eyes were grey, and shaper then any of the knives on the cutting board beside her, they stared out at me from under thick, dark but very handsome eyebrows, and her long, distinctive nose seemed chiseled as though out of pure granite.

She was staring at me, and it was more then a little disconcerting. I felt naked, and vulnerable.

The rest of her face was the same, hard and imposing. I wouldn't have called her beautiful had I been asked, nor exotic. I think the best word to describe her would have to be ethereal, but in a harsh, cold kind of way. Her hair was long, and the braid I had noticed earlier reached almost to the seat of her trousers, it had obviously been combed well enough, but much of it had become lose, and hung in strands around her face.

Her body as a whole was long, and languid. Her strict posture did nothing to detract from the thin fingers, they were not bony, but rather, sensitive, and they twitched descriptively. Her arms were the same, but she did not appear weak. In fact, her entire appearance worked to give her air of purpose and ability. Really, her countenance seemed to posses everything within it except confusion. Without a doubt this woman knew everything she needed to know and only thought about what she didn't in order to remedy the lack of knowledge.

However, through all this, there was something even stranger about her. Now, I'm not one to focus on the outward appearance, I am well aware that I was married to an extremely beautiful woman, and that never stopped me from respecting her mind. But I have to say that at that particular moment I could not escape the impression of this person's clothing.

I come from an age where people can wear pretty much whatever they like and not have to worry about it, women have their…wobbly bits hanging out in unladylike ways, and men's trousers could be a little looser most of the time.

However, this went beyond even that.

She was dressed head to toe in complete Nineteenth Century Victorian attire, not long frocks, and lacey bodices, but men's clothing.

Her suit was black, she wore a vest and jacket to match her trousers and a cravat of black silk was tied deftly around her collar. A high necked white blouse was visible. She wore no jewelry of a womanly kind, but a gold pocket watch chain glistened against the fabric of the vest, and a diamond pin was cozy in the folds of her cravat. Her shoes were black leather, they weren't polished to a shine, but they were certainly elegant. All in all, one did not have the impression of a woman trying to be something she was not. There was a male attitude about her, she not only dressed like one, but cared for her attire in the same way her father or brother would have.

I had the distinct impression she'd known I'd been looking at her for as long as I had been, and although she now faced me, she had not taken her attention away from the other occupants of the room. She took one sweeping look up and down my person, one eyebrow rising from it's place as though in rebellion, Like Spock from Star Trek the Original Series (if anyone even remembers that show). She then walked past me, out into the main restaurant, in swift, authoritive strides that caused that footwear of hers to click eerily upon the ties of the floor.

I hadn't taken much notice of the kitchen, nor did I attempt it now, I remained only long enough to ask who this person was who had intrigued me in such a way. A portly man, with a bushy blonde moustache who I took to be the chief chef answered me, hottily.

"She eez a meddler" he said grudgingly, in a very French way "She spoils my restaurant, why?"

I smiled, trying to ignore the unpleasant tone of voice and the testy gleam in his watery blue eyes.

"I'm just wondering, she seems a very strange sort of person."

He laughed now, throwing his head back, his puffy white hat holding onto his scalp for dear life. "She eez zat, her name eez Holmes, Mycroft Holmes."

I blinked, a smile twitching on my lips. "No, really," I prodded, certain that he was joking, I mean, anyone who knows anything about Sherlock Holmes would have seen the humor in that, and I knew more then most, although try as I might, I never seemed to be able to convince him to let me write anything about him.

The chef's eyes became angry again "eet was not a joke, her name eez Mycroft Holmes, and eef you think zat's funny, just wait until you hear her address."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2: Suspicion Aroused

******Chapter Two: Suspicion Aroused.**

Well, it's not like I could do anything else. The moment I heard it, I made a beeline for the address, stopping just long enough to tell Lucy where I was going and to beg for forgiveness with all my manly wiles. She was annoyed, I could tell, but she understood that it was important to me. And so, with a kiss on the cheek I was sent on my way.

I called a cab and tipped the driver extra so that he fairly slammed himself into the steering controls, dodging the other vehicles on the road and cursing almost-accidents as though they were the fault of the other drivers. I was launched out of the vehicle and ran the quick half a block to my destination, wanting to have a moment on my feet to think things out. I didn't know quite why I was so rushed, and yet I couldn't think of anything else long enough to feel bad about leaving Lucy alone at the restaurant.

Finally, there I was, on the front steps of 221A Baker Street. All I had to do was knock, and if she was there, I would be face to face with a shadow I'd been trying to stitch to my shoe since I'd first heard the rumor after my coming to England, that Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Elizabeth Lestrade had a daughter that was about two years younger then I was.

If there was one thing that family was good at, it was staying below the radar. The baby, who I now knew to be a girl (if only in the legal sense of the word), had been born at Baker Street. The family had a Scotland Yard issue Compudroid with medical programs, therefore that wouldn't have been a problem. The child had met life in a time of turmoil for the criminal underworld, which her father had played a substantial part in creating, and no doubt it was for this reason that such extreme precautions had been instated.

There was no record of a Holmes child that was related to the detective in any school roster. I'd found her birth certificate while doing some research, but to my shock there had been no name on it. It only stated that a child had been born to Elizabeth Lestrade in 2110 on Sunday August the thirteenth, a date that fit perfectly with the Holmes credo of working even on the weekends.

No doubt Mr. Holmes had pulled some strings with the public government files in order to protect his daughter. Although I was sure there were classified documents, I'd never been able to convince the heavy set guy in the cluttered office to let me see them.

So anyway, I now stood on the threshold of one of my most interesting ideas finally having a place between the pages. The last link in a book I'd been wanting to write for years that I thoroughly believed would be my greatest achievement to date if I was allowed to pursue it.

So why couldn't I knock on the bloody door?

Was I scared? Ya… but that wasn't what was keeping me from finishing what I'd started. It was more the fact that for an instant I had glimpsed a truly otherworldly person, someone of the stuff of the imagination. What would it do to that image if I knew more about her, or her father? Would it detract from the legend? Was I trying to write a book doomed to failure for being sadly anticlimactic? Was that the reason Mr. Holmes had been so distant in the first place?

I couldn't believe it. I was actually turning to leave when suddenly, the door opened and there stood, secluded in the frame, the tall, gaunt figure of Mycroft Holmes. The loose stands of hair blowing in the gusts from rushing cars, and her diamond pin, twinkling mischievously.

"Hello Mr. Rowley. Do come in, I've been expecting you."

I was a little taken aback, I will admit that. But it wasn't really beacuse she knew who I was, pronounced my name correctly, and had known I was chasing her across the city, but rather the way she said it. Bluntly, as though bored by the future in all it's obviousness.

Her voice was taught, not squeaky, on the deeper side for a woman, but as voices go it was strident, I believe her father's was once described using the same word. I knew her mother was American, although Mycroft's accent was of England.

It was a rich voice, full of consonants and layers. Her speech was correct, exact. Timed to perfection. I know I've described my wife's in a similar way, but Lucille's was like an advertisement, using a lot of friendly, welcoming highs and lows. It wasn't strict, more…rehearsed.

Mycroft's was polite, but she never said more then was necessary. Calculated is, I believe, the word I was looking for.

She gazed out at me from those famous eyes.

"Uh…Hi." I said, smoothly. All the while thinking to myself what an idiot I must look like.

"Do come in" she repeated the offer. She then turned on her heel, no doubt aware that I was going to need another moment to let the shock wear off and so there was no point in her holding the door open any longer.

However, I waited only a moment before following her thin figure up the stairs. Actually, her waistline was a little frightening. Unhealthy looking. Although, something told me she would have looked a lot worse if she'd been wearing fewer layers of clothing.

If I hadn't known who she was, I would have thought it to be some kind of dangerous eating disorder. But as things stood, her ancestry explained it well enough.

Remembering my earlier question, I gazed around at the antique walls, the wooden flooring, and the flecks of light flitting in through the window above the front door, searching to see if there were any hats lying about. There were none.

Baker Street was amazing. It stood out even on the inside, when one had no modern city to compare it to, as being special, one of a kind. The dark wood stairs and curved railing, worn down by the treads of two lifetimes of clients, creaked and moaned under my steps as they must have for all the others who had traipsed upon them before me.

I felt like a time traveler.

The door to the upper apartment was worn, and beautiful, but it was the interior that was the most stupefying.

221B wasn't right out of the books, though I could imagine that it had been at one point, there were no pipes on the mantel, and the Persian slipper was missing. But the jack knife was still there, sticking out provocatively from the wood of the mantel. And of course, the famous V.R. in bullet holes on the wall, where the landlady had obviously attempted to paper over it, was still visible in all it's timeless glory. Poor Mrs. Hudson. How she would turn in her grave is she knew.

Also conspicuous by it's absence, was the Violin.

I was sad to see that it wasn't there, so ancient a muse. Yet there was an instrument. A Viola lay exposed in it's open wooden case. The glaze the only thing shining brighter than the strings as they reflected the dusty light. It rested on the sofa. It had obviously only just been put down a little while before I'd come. Because I hadn't heard it as I walked up, and anyone who took the time to polish something that carefully would not leave it exposed to the elements and in potential danger of being sat upon for very long.

"Do sit down" that peculiar voice said again, and I blushed, having realized just how blatantly I was staring.

There were two armchairs, THE Armchairs. The armchairs of historical envy. Dark and musty, with all the time they'd lived and all the stories they could tell. She sat down in one of them while I remained standing for a moment, unsure of where to park myself. I knew the chair she was sitting in had belonged to her father and probably still did in her mind even though he obviously didn't live here anymore, hence the absence of some of his more famous possessions.

She glanced up, and motioned me into the chair across from her. "I dare say my uncles wouldn't mind." She smiled quickly, a mere flicker of another option her face could assume if she so chose.

I sat down gingerly, barely believing what was happening. I was sitting in Watson's chair. I – Thomas William Rowley – was sitting in Dr. John H. Watson's chair. I could hardly breathe.

But somehow I managed to get enough air to speak. "Your uncles?" it seemed to be the most obvious question to ask at the moment.

She raised an eyebrow. "I do hope you are not laboring under the false assumption that a dead godfather is not worthy of mention, and a machine cannot sit in arm chairs." Her eyes narrowed carefully, taking me in, assessing my pros and cons.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

She sighed, tiredly; my inferior intellect seemed to frustrate her.

"I have three uncles, two are dead and have been since my father's first life, my Uncle John Watson, and my Uncle Mycroft Holmes, the prefix of the former is an…honorary title."

It seemed to me that she was attempting to avoid the use of the word 'affectionate'.

"My third uncle is a Compudroid known as 'Watson' by the public and my family, but as neither the former or the latter of that name are at residence here, I do not think they would mind if you sat in their armchair."

I gulped fidgeting as my companion replaced her leather boots with a pair of slippers of the same material, exposing black men's stockings. "So…you knew I was coming then…and who I was?"

She then reached over and turned a tiny knob next to the fireplace that I had not noticed before. A small synthetic flame crept up and I could feel the heat radiating from it. It was saddening to think that even Baker Street had been condemned by the 'no fire indoors outside of the kitchen' restrictions of today, although she had at least left the starting of it to manual, instead of using a remote or a clapping of the hands.

"Mr. Rowley, most of new London knows your face, and I am well aware of your reputation for seeking out the unique and informal in your search for writing material, it is a trait my father has remarked upon with some amusement."

I turned red again. "He thinks it's funny, I guess?"

"Not at all" she corrected me, kindly "he only mentioned it because it is a peculiarity he shares."

I was only just realizing that she was speaking with an old style Victorian vocabulary. It had seemed natural, expected. And here in this place where time seemed to have almost no effect, I had not remembered to think it odd.

Aside from that train of thought, I was tickled pink by the fact that Sherlock Holmes actually remembered who I was.

"Yes, and although I must say that my indexes owe a great deal to your works, I am afraid that it is impossible for me to allow you to write anything about myself or my family."

I sighed "then why did you let me come in, in the first place?" Darn it, I'd let my hopes get too high.

"Because I wished to meet you, as you did me. You are a very exotic personality, Mr. Rowley. So young to have accomplished so much, and it was an ideal chance as I had just run into you during the course of one of my investigations. Besides, it will amuse my mother to know that I have met a famous American. She does detest there being so few of you on our side of the globe."

I grinned sheepishly, and brushed some disobedient hair out of my face, it needed a trim very baldly.

"So that's what you were doing there, investigating something?"

She smiled, leaning back in her chair, her eyes still trained on me like a cat watching a mouse. "Yes, it was, a simple smuggling ring, but when one is bored there are few options."

"So, obviously, you're a detective like your dad." I ventured, making mental notes. Sure, that was the assumption, but one had to be careful with these eccentrics. They took offense at strange things."

"I believe that injury you received before coming here has addled your senses." she plowed on, before I could even open my mouth in surprise "I'm amazed you even asked. yes, I am a Consulting Detective. Although at present, my work is mostly hands on."

I reached up and felt the small amount of dried blood beneath my hair, I'd forgotten about it completely in all the rush of the morning.

"When did you start working?" I asked, intrigued. Her grin was that of a Cheshire cat as she sighed languidly.

"I solved my first case on my own two weeks after turning twenty; I've been working ever since, although I only moved in here when my father retired five years ago."

I nodded.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know, Mr. Rowley, before this interview comes to an end?"

I shook my head, getting up from my chair, I was disappointed at her lack of cooperation, but overjoyed that she was everything my first impression had made her out to be.

My hand was on the door handle when she suddenly called me back. I turned to meet her gaze. She was sitting at attention now. Strict as a ramrod.

"That bump of yours, it must have been caused by a very sudden jerk in one direction."

I fingered the spot again, "ya, I got it when I stepped out of an ally earlier with my wife, this crazy hover car came out of nowhere, almost took my head off." I smiled and turned back towards the door.

"Stop."

"What?" I stopped. After swiveling back to look at her again. There was something in that commanding undertone that didn't entertain any other suggestion.

"Was that the first time that has happened to you?"

"Me? Ya," I thought for a moment "although come to think of it, my wife had a similar incident last week, but these things happen in a city like this"

"You said you were with your wife when it occurred this time?"

"Yes, I was." I was just a little uneasy now.

"I see." she was still sitting in her chair, seemingly absorbed in her thoughts. I made to leave again but she came out of her reverie all of a sudden and looked up at me "I think you had better stay here Mr. Rowley, and ask your wife to join you. I'm afraid one of my more recent cases has begun to spin out of control."

"But Miss. Holmes, what's-" she cut me off, her mood changing as easily and quickly as a traffic light.

"Just 'Holmes', I do not encourage the use of prefixes. You men have kept 'Mister' all for yourselves and 'Miss' sounds far too much like 'Mouse' to be in any way commanding, wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh…sure I-" she cut me off again.

"Call your wife," she got up from her chair now, and lunched herself across the room to a small video phone I had only just noticed that sat on top of what must have at one point been Doctor Watson's desk. "And tell her to make her way here as soon she's finished her dinner, do not alarm her, there is no reason to arouse suspicion in those I am hoping to avoid."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3: The Dreary Past

**Chapter Three: The Dreary Past.**

'_Well this is just peachy'_ I grumbled to myself, I'd made my way back to the worn armchair in which I'd previously been stationed, my head spinning. I didn't understand how the mood had changed so quickly. My face was in my hands as I thought, but every once in a while I sneaked a glance through my fingers, staring out at the tall pacing figure of Mycroft Holmes.

She was so intense, like an asteroid burning through the atmosphere, streaking towards an earthly target. It was the kind of mood that I imagined would usually inspire confidence, but as I finally lowered my hands, directing my gaze now to my feet, shuffling tensely into the worn bearskin throw rug by the fireplace, I couldn't help but feel that something even more disastrous was looming on the horizon.

I'd never met this woman before in my life, had Lucy? She would have told me, I was sure she would have, Mycroft had said she'd been at the restaurant for a reason that didn't involve either myself or my wife, it had been a coincidence, hadn't it? I shook my head, I was reading too much into this. Lucy ran a large, successful company; people were bound to want to take advantage of it.

Whatever this was, we'd work through it, I knew we would. Lucy and I had always been honest with each other, It was one of the reasons I loved her so much, her thick shoulder length hair, her beautiful eyes, her soft, full lips, these were all added perks, it was her, her spirit, her personality that I admired the most.

I'd never been a very fortunate child, I'd grown up in an abusive household. My father was violent, and my mother had always been too afraid to stand up to him. I'd lived with the knowledge that in my family, I would always be worse then second best.

My sister, Jamie, had always been everything my father wanted and felt it was right for a girl to be, good looking, popular, excellent grades, a cheerleader. She'd married young, not even considering college, and now lived out on a ranch in Montana with her husband Paul Scott, and their four children, two girls and two boys.

I was the opposite of Jamie, I had poor grades, low self-esteem, and my body type had always been slight and lanky. My father had wanted a football champion for a son, but it was only now, in my late twenties, that I'd finally begun to fill out a bit. Jamie was Super Girl, and I was supposed to be Superman.

Needless to say, I was kicked out of the house before I was sixteen, and following a series of unfortunate events that I'd prefer to avoid recounting, I'd ended up in England, a struggling newspaper reporter with no future and no bank account.

But year by year, struggle by struggle, I'd pulled my life together, and when I met Lucy, she hadn't cared that I was damaged, or rough around the edges from a life of dark circumstances. She'd seen _me_, and loved _me_, and I'd returned the favor.

Her father, who had married a woman he'd met while on vacation in India about thirty years back, who'd been living in the streets, had shared his daughter's open minded attitude and welcomed me into his family. As long as I was willing to work, and work hard, As long as I would support his daughter and love her, he wouldn't have cared if I'd been politician, a profession he held a certain amount of contempt for. It was in _her _family that I'd finally found mine.

It was impossible that my wonderful, kind, intelligent wife would have done anything that would get her tangled up with an enemy of Mycroft Holmes. She was in danger because of her company, merely a victim. That was the only explanation I could think of as I took my phone in my hands, and relayed my order to the voice recondition program.

"Lucy".

She answered immediately. Her rich voice, as clear and concise as though she were standing right next to me. "Tom? Is everything alright?" She enquired, slightly worried. I usually never called her this soon after taking off on one of my little excursions.

"Ya, everything's fine, sweetheart. I was just wondering if you could do me a favor after dinner?"

I heard her set down her spoon (she almost always ordered soup), as I looked up. Mycroft Holmes had never stopped pacing for an instant. Her shadow flickering in shapeless ecstasy with the flames in the grate.

"Certainly Darling." My wife's voice called me back from the realm of my thoughts. "What is it?"

"Miss Holmes." Said Victorianite glared at me, catching me off guard, but I hadn't wanted to explain my companion's odd rule to Lucy just yet. "Would like to meet you." I continued, redirecting my gaze "And I was wondering if you had time to pop over…it would save me lonely cab ride…" I flirted playfully, in an attempt to disarm any discomfort she may have been feeling at the odd request. "The address is 221B Baker Street."

There was a confused pause on the line for a moment, "I'll be over in half an hour, I'm almost done as it is." She assured me, after what seemed like a couple centuries. Then added, in her own playful way "Don't get too comfortable, now."

I laughed, despite my uncertainly "See you soon." She hung up the phone after a quick goodbye. I sighed, and realized that I'd completely ignored the earlier offer of the videophone without even thinking. Lucy and I didn't like videophones, we both agreed that they made us self conscious.

I slipped my own device back into my coat pocket, and got to my feet. "So what's all this about?" I demanded at last, swallowing hard.

Holmes looked at me, and the oddest expression I'd ever seen on anyone, swept across her prominent features. It was a mix between pity, satisfaction, worry and guilt. I winced, but did not withdraw my inquiry.

"You mean you don't know?" that eyebrow rose again, and it was suddenly extremely annoying.

"Tell me what the hell is going on!" I was quickly loosing my patience, as she finally came to a halt in front of the fire, and flopped back down into her armchair, completely unaffected by my impoliteness, her grey eyes probing me curiously. "I just asked my wife to fly half way across town for no good reason, I met you all of ten minutes ago and already I'm obeying senseless orders, What's going on?!"

She suddenly looked very uncomfortable. She seemed to be considering the right way to explain her behavior. I remembered a similar incident with her father the one time I'd been able to meet with him face to face, Elizabeth had been there, and I remember how course her husband had been (almost offensively abrasive) as he'd stared at me from the small wicker chair on the outside porch of his quaint Sussex cottage. Stating the previously hidden facts of my life in a very calloused way, his wife routinely prodding him out of trouble as he'd focused more then was necessary on sipping his tea.

Back in the present, I sniggled lightly at the humorous recollection, my companion scowled but said nothing, clearly thinking that my reaction had been directed at her.

"Well…to be entirely honest…" she began "Your wife is being hunted by gang of potentially murderous thugs."

My jaw dropped and the air in the room suddenly became very thin. She winced. "Perhaps I should have put it differently…" she allowed the frail apology to trail off.

My head hurt, The floor was spinning as I stared at it and my stomach felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with my forgotten dinner. I was also uncomfortably warm, and reached around myself to remove my long leather jacket. I didn't like take it off when I was away from home, but it felt almost claustrophobic now.

Holmes elaborated quickly, reading my expression as I hung the coat over the tall back of my chair. Her words were sure, and swift.

"For some months now, your wife's company has been experiencing some difficulty." She began "at first, she merely believed it to be a mistake in her calculations, but as time progressed, and the small inconsistency became a large one, she began to worry that it could be something else entirely, she expressed this concern to her father who contacted me." There was a pause for a moment, "…he and my father are old friends." was added, quietly.

"The trouble began in connection with a large amount of Spanish gold, some two thousand twenty one ornate pieces dating from the time of the downfall of the Inca, which have been offered by the country of Mexico as collateral for a loan. The treasure was equal to the value of one billion credits.

The treasure was shipped to _Warner & Company_ in a selection of small specially designed containers at varying times, in hopes of avoiding the very trickery that has been the source of your wife's distress.

She discovered that the shipments were being looted, only a few items being removed from each container, which was then repacked to make it look as though nothing was missing. My own investigations have lead me to the conclusion that the only time this could have occurred was upon their arrival at the loading bay, just prior to their relocation to a high security vault.

Of the two thousand twenty one, only forty-nine treasures have been stolen. This number may seem insignificant, not to mention idiotic on the part of the thieves. But considering the value of the missing objects, it would be just as stupid for them to take more then was necessary when, by removing small amounts, they might avoid detection for much longer.

I believe they chose this method because it would give them time to melt down the gold and sell it, without there being any reason for the police to be looking for it when the inconsistency would appear little more then a mere systems error."

I had sat, listening to this dumbfounding explanation, delivered in her fascinating centuries-old vocabulary, without really acknowledging it. It was surreal. But she seemed happy enough with my apparent calm, because she continued a moment later. Her eyes boring through me from the darkness the firelight was casting over their sockets, she took another breath.

"Yesterday I hit upon the first real lead in my investigation, but it seems that I was not careful enough. I believe that your and your wife's near death experiences are a result of my discovery. And that whoever is behind this, is reacting in order to protect their own safety.

I believe your wife to be the intended victim, and that your presence is merely coincidental, as mine was in the restaurant," she emphasized quickly. "I am unclear as to why they would target your wife when clearly I, or even her father are far more dangerous to them, But I am certain that whatever their reasons, I shall uncover them."

I choked suddenly, finding it hard to breathe. "What…" I gasped, "Was the clue you found?"

She sighed again, she seemed to do that a lot, I wondered absently if it was an effect I produced in her, or if it was the same with everyone. However, despite her cryptic reaction, she obliged me with an answer.

"I discovered a single smudge of blood on a sharp edge of one of the ransacked containers, it's DNA analysis shows it to belong to a man named Brice Princeton, who is an international thief of antiquities I am very familiar with. However, he's usually not dangerous, preferring to turn a profit with the risk being a limited number of years of imprisonment and not a lifetime sentence. I believe that he has been hired as a mere appendix by an as yet unknown individual."

Here she paused, looking at me strangely. "I apologize; you really had no idea did you?" Her tone was sincere, suddenly gentle.

I shook my head; possibilities were hurting my brain, what if Lucy was killed on the way over? I should have gone to get her, but would that alert the thieves?

What if she was being watched? Watched…how long had this been going on? Why hadn't she told me? Was it because she didn't want to worry me? Or she didn't think I could be of any help? The queasy feeling in my stomach came to the forefront all of a sudden and I tried to get up from my chair. But my knees weren't working.

All my life I have been a very sensitive person, I know that sounds kind of wimpy, but it's the truth, I was always a mamma's boy. Quiet, self-contained. Watching the news had always been difficult for me, the death, the senseless hate.

It had gotten easier for me when I became a reporter, I'd felt like I was doing something, getting the word out. But after a trip to Israel in the middle of the latest turmoil there, I'd ended up nearly being blown sky high by a land mine. I hadn't been badly hurt in the end, because my guide, a local man, had grabbed me, and shoved me out of the way the moment he'd heard the click of the metal beneath my feet.

I'd landed against a rock and been knocked out. When I came to, it was to find myself blood spattered, and lying next to the disembodied hand of my savior, minus three fingers.

The man's name was Amit. He'd been kind, and tolerant, and he'd worn a blue vest and a green hat that had clashed with each other. I'd grown very dependant upon his cheery outlook and bravery as my assignment had unfolded.

I'd thrown up for a while, despite having nothing in my stomach, and then wondered aimlessly in shock for I don't know how long, until a Frenchman named Bezu Sémeré, a television reporter, had found me and managed to get me back to my hotel.

I don't remember anything that happened afterword other then a few disjointed impressions, hearing an English voice, and a lot of murmuring as my clothing was stripped away, being poked with various needles…they told me later that I'd had a fractured skull. My physical wounds healed well enough, it was when I got back to England that the real difficulties began.

As the final remnants of the protective denial I'd been holding to slowly fell away, I started having strange, graphic nightmares whenever I'd close my eyes, I'd wake screaming, calling out to Amit, trying to warn him.

In my dreams he was there, in front of me. I'd reach out to grab him, but my fingers just fell through empty air, again and again he was consumed by fire and dust, his body disintegrating before my eyes, the fear radiating off his contorted face in an expression that somehow still lingered in the final wisps of chalky decay even without flesh to depict it's self from.

I would launch out of bed, throw up, and then shower, shower for hours and hours, trying everything I could to get the blood off me, I always felt like I was covered in it.

Then one day, at work, as I was finishing the article about my trip, I got to Amit's name and my vision started spinning. That was all I had of him, his first name. I'd never been told his last, and I'd never thought to ask when he was alive. I still remember the taste of the blood in my mouth as I lost consciousness, there in my office, The dizzy feeling as the world lost substance around me.

Later at the hospital, the doctor informed me that I had an ulcer, a bad one, caused by stress. It was months before it finally started to disappear, but ever since then I've been prone to them.

I could feel it now, the stress building. I clutched my stomach. I hated hospitals, and the last thing I wanted to do was end up in one again, ironically, that usually only made things worse, my panic at the probable outcome.

"Mr. Rowley…" I heard her voice, and for a moment, I couldn't' remember who it was. "Are you quite alright?"

I tried to speak, but the moment I started to open my mouth, the bile rose in my throat. I coughed it down, and nodded.

Her eyebrow seemed to be stuck in the same raised position on her forehead, and she looked extremely uneasy as she rose halfway from her chair. "Wait a moment." She said, quickly. And I heard light, capable footsteps and a gentle clinking. She traipsed back over and then there was a glass about a quarter full of a dark amber liquid taking up the majority of my vision. I reached out with the hand not holding quite as tightly to my stomach as the other, and took it, it smelled of brandy.

"I don't think this is such a good idea." I warned, picturing the brandy adding to the eating away of my stomach lining.

"Perhaps not for immediate relief, No. But it will calm you, which will do you good in the long run." She looked at me, her eyes insisting gently. How was it that she seemed to know what was wrong with me? Did I have a sign on my forehead or something?

I stared at her, and took a sip of the drink. I coughed again, but kept it down, feeling the warmth spread throughout my body.

"I am extremely sorry. I had no idea you were so ill informed." She apologized again.

I grinned, sheepishly, still not daring to let go of my abdomen. "I don't handle stress well."

Holmes nodded, her eyebrow had finally relaxed back into place and I wondered at the drastic change in her manor, she'd gone from being cold and distant one moment, to gentle and reassuring the next.

"I can see that." She smirked now, and I sighed again, feeling a little better.

Just then, I heard footsteps on the stair, the door creaked open and my wife walked into the room.

TBC


End file.
